Don’t Read from the Book!

This one is based on the weekly picture prompt from The Writer’s Mess below, and me watching the Mummy this weekend.  It is exactly the dark wtf you are probably expecting from me, and I think it’s similar to something I have written prior, but cannot seem to find now. Anyways, see what happens when you read from the book.


Whoever said nothing bad ever came from reading a book hadn’t read from the one that they held in their hands that night.  It was supposed to be one of those sleepover jokes, reading from the book that Larissa had picked up at the second had store. 

The book was old, not in Latin, but not exactly in middle-English either.  It was in that badly written English where you could sus out the words, but they were spelled wonky, and they had to sound it out one word at a time to figure out what it was saying.

They had all stood in the yard at midnight under the light of the full moon, dressed to the nines, post their usual sleepover makeovers to do it, just like the book called for.

It wasn’t the first sleepover they had, it was the last though. While the three of them were cleared in the deaths of the other four girls that were there that night, they never wanted to see each other, or that book ever again.

Maybe, if they were lucky, someday they would even be able to forget what had happened.

This Year, I’m Me

This story is this week’s response to the weekly picture prompt challenge on the Writer’s Mess, and it heralds in the beginning of a new year.  Follow our narrator, as they celebrate New Year’s, and pull a full on Whoville moment where they understand it’s not at all about WHAT you have.


They couldn’t have fireworks, not within city limits, and even if they could, it wasn’t really in the budget.  They were sharing a three-bedroom apartment with five people, and they were small bedrooms. 

It was perfect though, they could be themselves here in this place, where their room barely fit a twin bed, and a good stretch would end with broken fingers.

It was better than the room they used to have, that was bigger than the entire apartment, and filled with the best of everything.  Everything from the carpet to the curtains in shades of pink, and closet filled with dresses for a girl that wasn’t who they were.

Here they could be who they were, be named as they were, and that made the small overcrowded space more of a home than that place where she used to live.

Here there weren’t fireworks, there were dollar store sparklers held out the window to keep the fire alarm from going off, and it was the beginning to a new year, a new life, more than they ever could have hoped for.


I will probably be taking a bit of a step back now in the New Year.  I have two courses, as well as some personal projects that I am working on.  I am going to try and keep up with Six-Sentence story, but it is more likely that I will just be doing biweekly short stories, and biweekly short fiction. I am still kicking though, so don’t go anywhere, because I will be back on full time before you know it!

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas…

This one is for the weekly picture prompt on The Writer’s Mess, shown below, and I will tell you that this one is a response to a challenge of “cozy horror” that I discussed with the Mess group a while back.  Sit back and enjoy the holiday season with this lovely little Christmas story.


Ernest lowered the needle onto the record, and stood eyes closed, as the opening baritone washed over him.  He took a deep breathe, and released his remaining tension along with the exhale.

He sat down on the couch clad in his favorite wool Christmas sweater, glass of eggnog in hand, staring into the roaring fire, as the crackling accentuated the feeling of the Christmas music.  

His Christmas tree was decorated, and stockings for him and his love were hung on the mantle with the utmost care.  Every surface of the cabin was adorned with Christmas, whether it be the Santa Claus placemats on the table, or the sock reindeers that sat on the back of the couch.

Some people would say he had gone overboard, but this was his favorite time of the year, and he deserved to go all in.  It was after all, just a month, one perfect month.

He was sure his love would agree, the sounds of her chains coming up through the floorboard like the jingling of sleigh bells.  She would love it… Or the next one would. 

Either way, it would be the perfect Christmas.

Binding

Welcome to this weeks response to the Friday Picture Prompt on The Writer’s Mess. This week the picture was of a calligraphy pen, with a single dot of what looks like black ink on a white surface. I chose to interpret this as blood, under strange lighting, and made what could be a continuation of previous picture prompts, as someone signs a contract to escape a place, and go back home.


A single drop of blood fell from the tip of the pen, and it looked almost black in the strange light of this place. She thought back to how she got here, all those years ago, and shuddered at the thought of what she had done to stay alive.

The endless summer paradise was a trap, set to trick you into a hunger and thirst so great that you would do anything to quench it…and she had. She had done things that she could never speak of, and the sounds of the screams still echoed in her ears at night when she tried to slept.

This though, this was her last shot. This contract would be enough to get her home, well not home, for she knew too much time had passed for her to ever really go home again, but it would free her from this place.

The price was high, almost higher than she was willing to pay, but in this case almost was a word that meant yes, and so she took a deep breath, signed her name to the page , watching as it turned gold, the contract binding her unto it.

There were only two outcomes left for her now. One, she finished the contract and got to leave, and two, she didn’t finish the contract, and she died. Either way, she would soon be gone from this wretched place., forever.